Flipped: On Her Turf
by goddess.of P U R P L E
Summary: When Rory came to Chilton, she was entering Tristan’s world. He had the advantage. But what if Tristan moved to Stars Hollow? Then he would be On Her Turf and the story would be Flipped. Ultimately Tristan/Rory, with Luke/Lorelai and some Dean/Rory.


**Flipped: On Her Turf**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Gilmore Girls or any of the characters in it, but I do own the plotline of this story and those characters that I created.

**Summary: **When Rory came to Chilton, she was entering Tristan's world. He had the advantage. But what if Tristan moved to Stars Hollow? Then he would be **On Her Turf** and the story would be **Flipped**. Ultimately Tristan/Rory, with Luke/Lorelai and some Dean/Rory.

**Author's Note: **My debut as goddess.of P U R P L E, though I have written stories for fanfiction before, under the pen name of Lady Fael (who is now figuratively dead along with the muse that drove her). If you like it, which I hope you do, please show your appreciation by dropping me a review. I love to see those and will never respond negatively to them. Now on to the story!

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"…and therefore, after mitosis, the forty-two chromosomes-" The ring of the bell was so sudden that Rory jumped, clutching her desk as she regained her composure. Stars Hollow High's bell wasn't booming, like a gong, or cheerful, like a cow bell. Instead, it was metallic and electric-sounding and loud and just plain _annoying. _A hand reached up to sweep ebony-brown hair away from her blue eyes, also revealing Rory's charming smile. "…would split into two halves, twenty-one going to one of the daughter cells, twenty-one transferring into the other." Students were already stuffing their textbooks into their bags as she finished speaking, but the teacher was watching her, and that was all that mattered.

"Thank you, Miss Gilmore, for clearing that up. Now class, there's a quiz on this next week, and though I'm sure you have 'more important things to do', studying is the best course of action if you want to pass it." Miss Ryells gifted Rory with a pleased, rather hasty smile before she turned away to pack her own bag. Slowly, Rory sank into her chair, gathered up her notebook, textbook and pencil case, and carefully fitted them into her backpack.

Her science class was, in Rory's opinion, the one fullest of idiots out of all the classes, even homeroom, which had some pretty pathetic idiots. And so she ended up being the only student speaking most of the time, finding herself standing up more than sitting, lecturing her idle peers instead of the teacher, who really had no hold on them. Neither did she, but the teacher seemed to think that the other students did listen to her, another student. It didn't make much sense, but then the mind of an adult, especially one that was stretched taut every day due to groups of frustrating teenagers, rarely did.

"I'm sure Dean will be proud that his- oh, excuse me, did that slip out? So sorry." Rory turned, the sentence slow to register. _Dean…oh. Dean. _Her face turned bright red and she whipped her head around so that she faced front again, gritting her teeth determinedly to make sure she didn't lash out and slap the girl who'd just spoken to her. _She's just jealous, _Rory tried to tell herself. In vain: she knew very well that whoever that was had no reason to be jealous of her, Rory Gilmore, the-one-who-had-been-going-out-with-Dean-forever-but-had-just-been-dumped. It took a lot of effort to keep tears from pooling in her eyes at the thought of her gentle Dean, and her steps quickened as she hurried to the front of the building.

Lane was standing there, as she always was after school, having arrived a few minutes before her slower friend. She was wearing a jean-jacket smuggled to school in her backpack and put on in the school's bathroom, underneath which was a black Foreigner T-Shirt brought to school in exactly the same way. "Rory! Of course, you're late. You always are. So why do I even bother to hurry here every single day? You would think I had learned by now." It might have sounded like grumbling to anyone else, but Rory could spot the smile hidden under Lane's mask of frustration. The two began to walk in the direction of Lane's house even as she finished her little rant.

"Late? How can I be late when we have no scheduled meeting time put in place? Besides, school gets out at 3:30 and I showed up at 3:40. That's not bad. It's very reasonable for someone like me, in fact." While she talked, Rory tried to control the squeaky, desperate edge to her voice that was bound to come if she let her guard down. _What's Dean doing now? How was his day?_

Lane stopped abruptly, turning around to face Rory. There was worry on her face, and a hint of exasperation. "Why do you let them get to you?" So she could tell. _Well, I should have expected it; that's a 'good friend' thing, right? Telling when your friend's miserable about something. And what. _"They're jerks. Do you remember the way they watched you two? They're delighted that you've 'fallen'. But you haven't Rory; show them that." Then, more gently, Lane placed her hands on Rory's shoulders and urged her, with her eyes, to lift her head.

"I wonder what Dean's doing right now," she muttered softly, her voice sounding far-away even to her own ears. At the sound of his name, she winced, but kept talking. She wanted pain; it distracted her from the ache inside of her.

Lane's eyes narrowed in something like…pity? No, that's not the right word; it was compassion. "Look, Rory," She removed her hands from her friend's shoulders and started to walk again, slowly, her voice much calmer, soothing. "He broke up with you because he was scared you couldn't say you loved him. Obviously, you do. So why not tell him? Then you can get together again and you won't have to frighten me with your gloominess. Sound like a plan?"

"It's not that simple," she tried to explain, her face scrunching up as she searched for the right words to express what she felt. A stone was near her foot; she kicked it as they went along. "Love…I like Dean. I like him a lot. He's the perfect boyfriend, and he likes me too. No, he _loves_ me. But love…love is so, so…" Frustrated, she gave the pebble a good kick and sent it flying onto the street. "I don't want to say I love him when I'm not absolutely sure I do. 'Love' is such a strong thing, so serious, and what I feel for Dean…how do I know it's love? I'm not going to tell him I love him if I don't, Lane." She paused, her foot finding another pebble that she began to kick along. "How do I know if it's love?"

"Love isn't as complicated as you're making it out to be, Rory, and this isn't so big a deal. You're comparing what you feel for Dean to all those unrealistic, passionate romances you read too much of. Love can be very simple: just you and Dean. Test it out if you don't believe me: think about Dean…what do you feel?" Lane looked at her expectantly, watching Rory's expression carefully.

Maybe Lane was right. Maybe she was making love out to be more than it was and she was hurting herself and Dean because of it. But then again, love, the kind between a girl and her boyfriend, had always been held sacred by romantic Rory. It might sound silly, but she'd fantasized about a first kiss by moonlight, a golden, gentle knight who would put flowers in her hair, make her laugh, defend her honor…Dean was most of that. The problem didn't lie with him, but with her: something made it seem wrong to Rory to simplify love the way Lane was suggesting. "OK, I'll tell him," Rory lied, not meeting Lane's eyes.

Lane smiled, failing to notice Rory's falseness. "Good. You'll thank me for this."

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"Great, you're home. I love you, hi, I hope you had a nice day, blah blah blah. Now, to cut to the chase: I need your help."

Rory had to smile at her mother's antics. Putting down her bag, she walked into the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe, watching Lorelai. "Uh-oh. That sounds…forbidding. What do you need my- ooh, are those _pop-tarts_?"

"Yeah, they are. Burned pop-tarts. That's what I needed your help with." Making a face, Lorelai held up a blue-frosted pop-tart, showing her daughter the blackened bottom. Rory noticed that her shirt, dark red, said, **Damsel in Distress**. She raised her eyebrows at the motto; her mother was anything but.

"'Damsel in Distress'? What's that supposed to mean? And since when have you not managed to cook – no, sorry, _heat up _– pop-tarts by yourself?" Taking a few steps, she joined her mother at the counter and looked down at the mess. The toaster was steaming, with bits of black stuck to the insides, and three very sad looking pop-tarts with black undersides stared up at her. _Aw, I'm sorry. I'll eat you anyway. Er, that sounded strange, and not what I meant. _

"It means nothing. Stop looking so far into things," Lorelai replied rather stiffly, scooping up some burned chunks of pop-tarts to drop them into the trash.

"Nothing? Nothing with Luke-has-a-girlfriend on top?" Rory winked at her mother when she turned to look at her, ignoring the pile of black pop-tart in front of her.

"You are _not_ suggesting…"

"I suggest nothing. I'm just pointing out that every time Luke gets a girlfriend he has less time for you and being your slave, so you feel more helpless than usual. Simple and nothing that you have to deny." As she pushed the charred remnants into the trash, Rory smiled to herself. The charge between Luke and Lorelai was all too apparent to her. _Luke would make a good Daddy._

"I don't make him my _slave_. I just ask him to help me around the house sometimes and he-"

"Sometimes?" Rory snorted, her blue eyes merry with laughter.

"Yes, _sometimes_. And he's happy to do it so it's not like he's my _slave._"

"He's happy to do it, hm?"

"_Stop it!_"

"Stop what?"

"Acting like I want him in my bed or something! He's _Luke_, Rory, and we're just _friends_. Nothing like that."

Rory just shrugged and finished sweeping the ashes into the trash with the side of her hand. "Yeah, sure," she muttered to herself. Lorelai pretended not to hear.

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"Mom?" Rory began, between mouthfuls of her not-burned strawberry-frosting pop-tart. Pop-tarts, you should know, were delicious; that creamy, thick, crusted-over frosting on the top – in all different flavors I might add, ranging from a bright blue blueberry to a mellow pink strawberry – was full of artificial goodness. Even that cakey part, usually to be avoided in other things, was to die for; soft and malleable, but hard enough not to completely collapse anywhere but in your mouth, crumbley goodness…

"I'm eating my pop-tart here, Rory," Lorelai pointed out, her voice only slightly irritable since the joy of eating a pop-tart erased part of it. "No time for talking."

"But," bite "it's kind of," mm…"important."

"More important than pop-tarts?" Lorelai quizzed, lifting an eyebrow as she began to put down the half-finished pop-tart. Her third.

"Is there anything more important than pop-tarts?"

"Ding ding ding! Correct answer. I'm willing to listen."

"OK, so…well, you know how…Dean and I…broke up?"

Lorelai looked up immediately, the pop-tart forgotten. There was a bit of concern on her face, masked by cheerfulness. "Yeaah…"

"And you know we…broke up…because I couldn't tell him I loved him?" Rory's voice went slightly high-pitched as she went along, but she managed to keep calm by squeezing her eyes shut after. _Oh God, Dean…are you thinking about me? Or do you not care? Lindsay was making eyes at you today…_

"Oh, honey," Lorelai gushed, placing a hand on her daughter's. "Yes, I know, I know. Go on." The skin between her eyes was creased and all her attention was Rory's.

"Lane and I were talking, and she made it seem like, well, love was simpler than I was making it out to be, and she said…I should just tell Dean I love him, since I'm so upset and that means I do. But…well, what do you think?"

"I think," Lorelai started, slowly. "That Lane is right. And so are you. I don't think you're making love out to be more than it is, because love is a big deal, it is important, it is rare, it is hard to find, and you should be picky about what you call 'love'. But on the other hand…I do think that what you…feel for Dean, is more than just a crush. Maybe not fanatical love, but I think…it's love to some degree. Dean certainly loves _you_. If you don't feel comfortable loving him in return, maybe…the breakup was right. But if you feel, in your gut, that it was wrong…tell him you love him. It won't be a lie." Encouragingly, Lorelai squeezed her daughter, hiding the tears in her eyes from her. _Did I love you, Christopher? Do I love you, Luke?_

"OK," Rory assented quietly, burying her head in her mother's chest like a little child. But she still wasn't sure.

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"_Tristan!_ Would you come along _please_? I can't afford this hold up; Laurence told me to meet him there at 7:00 AM sharp. The drive to Stars Hollow is 30 minutes long and it's already 6:35. Drag your lazy ass over here or I'll go over personally and-"

"I'm _coming, _I'm _coming_." The speaker was a tall, lanky, handsome boy with tussled blond hair, irritated blue eyes, a scowl on his face and baggy jeans dragging behind him as he walked slowly over to the Ferrari, a bulky backpack on his shoulders. The white T-shirt he was wearing read **What am I doing here?** It was exactly what he was thinking; that he was wearing the T-shirt on this day was no coincidence.

As the doors of the red Ferrari closed behind him and his father revved up the engine, Tristan grimaced. He had an urge to press his face to the window like in the movies, watch his manor and Hartford gradually disappear…but he didn't. Instead, he crossed his arms stiffly in his lap and stared straight ahead, at the back of the driver's seat. Where his father was sitting. At the thought of his father, his fists clenched.

"Damnit, Tristan!" Robert DuGrey exclaimed, punching the horn on the steering wheel in front of him. It was 7:55 and they were stuck in traffic, about 10 minutes away from Stars Hollow. "If you'd gotten up when Louise came in the first time…or if alarm clocks were effective around you…" Robert seemed to be on the point of growling.

"Well _sorry_," Tristan mocked without feeling, still staring straight ahead. "You should have prepared yourself; after all, I told you about, oh, a thousand times that I didn't want to go."

"That's all very well, but you have to. You have no choice. None of us do." Robert's hands tightened around the wheel, a gesture that went unnoticed by Tristan, who unwisely decided to try his luck with his tense father.

"It's not all very well! You're right that I didn't have a choice, but you did. And mother did." Tristan paused for a moment, but the anger flowing through his veins, burning behind his eyes, spurred him on. He was on the dangerous point of exploding. "Stop acting like it didn't happen; admit it to yourself! It's the first step in making things right again. _You and mother are planning on a divorce. _The reason you're moving and dragging me along with you has nothing to do with business, but because you 'can't stand to be around her any-'"

"Tristan, _stop_." Robert's voice was frighteningly icy and steady, his hands shaking on the wheel. Slowly, he turned to face his son, rage written on his face. "How _dare_ you talk like that to me?" So quickly that Tristan was jerked backwards in his seat and his head slammed against it, the car swerved to the side with a squeak, narrowly missing the sidewalk and two other cars. Calmly, Robert switched off the gas and turned to face Tristan again. "It's time _you _admitted to yourself that things aren't _going _to ever be right again, at least not between myself and your mother. We _are _divorced Tristan, we went through the legal procedure two days ago. _It's official, it can't be 'fixed'. _Stop acting like it's a mistake; your mother and I beg to differ. Now," coolly, Robert adjusted his tie and switched the car on, ignoring the angry beeps from cars all around him. "I forbid you to discuss this again, with either me or anyone else. Especially anyone else. We moved because I was offered a good job, got it? If they ask any further, the job has to do with the feeble bank in this town and that inn of theirs, the Dragonfly Inn, and its finances." And they drove on, the only difference being that Tristan was silently shaking in the back seat.

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A red Ferrari pulled up in front of the largest, nicest house in Stars Hollow at 8:30 AM.

The house wasn't so bad. It certainly wasn't as big, imposing or expensive as the manor they had left behind in Hartford, and it _wouldn't _do, but he had to admit it wasn't the shack he'd been expecting. Silently, Tristan circled the big house on the outskirts of town, examining it. It had a large yard _and _a patio, with some trees and bushes and flowers...

"Come help me with the luggage, Tristan!" his father summoned from the car, his head inside the open trunk as he hauled a big suitcase out of the car. "What did you pack in this thing, rocks?" Grunting, he lowered his son's suitcase onto the concrete of the sidewalk and handed it over to Tristan, who wheeled it to the front door. "There's more, come back." Grimly, Tristan returned and helped his father half-drag-half-carry their entire luggage to the door. There was more that was going to be shipped to them in a few days.

Solemnly, after smoothing his suit, Robert rang the large doorbell. Tristan slammed the knocker against the door for good measure. Almost immediately, a perky maid appeared, the only difference between her and the Louise back home being that she wasn't wearing a uniform, but 'normal' clothes. Robert's frown of disapproval went unnoticed by her. "Why, you must be the DuGreys. Come on in, it's all set. Thom and I will take that in for you. I'm Emma, by the way." Cheerfully, she stuck out a hand for the two to shake. Neither did.

Somewhat put down, Emma called Thom, who turned out to be a man in his 40s wearing 'normal' clothing as well, and the two brought the luggage into the house and up into the bedrooms. Moodily, Tristan walked all around the large house, exploring every room, prodding everything. It was the nicest, the biggest house in this stupid town, he'd heard. But it could never compare to his manor back home. Yes, Hartford was still home. It would never stop being home.

"When do I have to go to school?" Tristan asked his father gloomily, reappearing in the main room. Robert was doing the same as him; turning over every single object, inspecting everything. He was going much slower than his son, being more efficient.

"Hmm? Oh, school. You start tomorrow. Come here Tristan, look at this; it's a bible from 1910! Do you realize that's over 90 years ago?"

Tristan couldn't care less about the stupid bible. Or the stupid town, or the stupid school, or the stupid people in it. He just wanted to go back to Hartford. But that clearly wasn't going to happen, at least not any time soon…so adjusting would do no harm, right? And that was something that was easy for Tristan DuGrey: fitting into new places.


End file.
